


Outcast

by Like_a_teddy_bear



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Shapeshifting, Were John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-07 03:34:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3159689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Like_a_teddy_bear/pseuds/Like_a_teddy_bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the dinner table of John’s 14th Christmas dinner he shifted for the first time. After being outcast by his family, John resigned himself to the fact that for the rest of his life the knowledge that he was a werewolf would need to be kept to himself. A secret he kept so well - until Sherlock walked back into his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Man against Beast

John staggered up the stairs, not bothering to avoid the predictable creaking steps which complained under his weight. Reaching the door he paused, a sigh escaping his lips; whoever designed door handles to be round had not considered the impact upon those unfortunate enough to be given the duty of carrying the shopping.

“Sherlock?” John called out, cocking his head as he listened for any signs of life within the flat. Nothing.

He’d been lucky enough that Mrs Hudson, who had been cleaning the entryway, heard him struggling on the steps outside the building, cursing under his breath. She’d opened the front door to him, but, stupidly, he’d declined her offer to assist him further by opening the door to 221B.

After several failed attempts at putting the key into the lock with all 6 bags held precariously in his hands, his shoulder wounded in the war began to give way and his leg, which had been pure agony prior to meeting Sherlock, had begun to ache. His decision to walk home from Tesco rather than take a taxi, in an effort to put in place his plan of getting back into shape, turned out to be a terrible idea. ‘It’ll only half an hour’ he’d told himself, forgetting to factor in the winter was fast approaching, leading to him ending up soaked through to the skin, looking like a drowned rat, after a torrential downpour. Sinking to one knee in an effort not to drop the shopping from a height, he placed the bags on the floor. He raised his hand to massage the tension out of his shoulder as he rolled it backwards and forwards. Returning to his feet, grimacing with his discomfort, John inserted the key, turning until he heard the inner workings of the lock click into place, granting him entry as he turned the handle, opening the door a crack.

All his energy spent, hauling the shopping back onto his arms, he stumbled forwards through the threshold causing him to shoulder the door open with more force than originally intended. This resulted in it bouncing back off the wall, slamming into his side. Grunting in his frustration, John hooked his foot around the corner of the door and with a quick flick he flung it shut with a bang that resonated through the walls.

John clumsily made his way into the kitchen, picking up speed as the handle on the heaviest of the bags began to stretch, not wanting the old saying of ‘don’t cry over spilt milk’ to be appropriate in the near future. Reaching the counter in the centre of the kitchen, he began to heave the bags up onto the surface before reconsidering due to his knowledge of potentially bio-hazardous experiments that had taken place there within the last week. He opted for the floor as the destination of their food, deeming it less dangerous to their health. Ironic.

Having positioned the bags in the corner of the kitchen, John filled the kettle and switched it on, desperately needing tea, then walked into the living room. He plonked himself down unceremoniously into his armchair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He checked his watch; only two o’clock in the afternoon and he was already knackered, but this time he couldn’t blame his tiredness on an messed up sleep pattern. He and Sherlock were currently in the period of time between cases, meaning that his nights were spent asleep rather than chasing criminals half way across London. There was only one explanation for his exhausted state; he needed to shift.

When he was 14 years old, John shifted for the first time. One moment we was sat at the dinner table, having a civilised Christmas meal with his extended family, then the next complete chaos ensued. In the process of shifting Johns top and trousers burst at the seams, the button flying across the room and, unluckily, collided with his mother’s most expensive vase, causing it to shatter into a million pieces. John thrashed out, sending his chair and tableware airborne. Adult members of the family stood drawing their children away in alarm, while John bolted, cowering in the corner of the room behind a chunky curtain covering the French windows.

The minutes passed, no one being brave enough to peel back the drapes and witness what John had become. If it weren’t for the steady drone of whispers reaching his ears, John could have convinced himself that he was alone in the room. One set of footsteps began making their way towards Johns hideout. They paused, having reached their destination and crouched down, the tell-tale sound of cracking knee’s revealing the visitors identity; his sister, Harry.

John attempted to say her name as a warning, not knowing exactly what he intended to warn her of, but instead of the familiar English language, a whine left his lips. Startled by himself, he lurched forward, colliding with the drape. In his hysteria, the curtain pole got ripped from the wall, resulting in John being severely tangled in the fabric. Constant whimpers escaping him in his defeat, John closed his eyes, not ready to face his family’s reaction to this turn of events.

A hesitant hand made its way beneath the fabric and positioned itself atop his head, slowly smoothing backwards, as Harry’s soothing voice made its way to his ears with a steady stream of reassurances, “It’s okay, John. It’s only me, Harry. I’m here. I won’t hurt you.”.

Gradually Harry peeled back the drape away from his face, but John kept his eyes tightly shut, afraid of what he would witness. The air shifted around him as Harry moved to sit cross legged before him. John stood, his head hanging in shame, as he lifted his eyes to meet hers. The affection he read in her face brought with it reassurance that the situation wasn’t as bad as he’d first imagined. John crept towards his sister, sinking back down to the floor and positioning his head in her hand, the other coming up to cup his cheek. He tilted his face, sinking into her comforting touch as she gently stroked his fur, smile never leaving her face, and opened his mouth to express his gratitude for her understanding, when their uncle manhandled Harry back to her feet.

“Get off me! What are you doing? Can’t you see he’s scared? You’re not helping!” she shouted as she thrashed about in Dave’s arms, attempting to free herself from his clutches.

When he’d dragged her back to what he perceived as a safe distance away, he span her around to face John and began muttering venomous words into her ear, jading her perspective of her brother.

“Look at him, he’s a beast,” he said, causing John to growl in response.

“See, he’s vicious! Harry, you can’t trust him. He could turn any minute!” Dave exclaimed.

John stood, baring his teeth with his hackles raised as he advanced, eyes fixed on the man before him. Probably not the best plan he’d ever come up with, but he got what he wanted in that moment; to be alone.

As he stalked towards his target, everyone began to flee the room. The children screaming, mothers desperately trying to comfort them as they bottled up their own emotions and fathers standing their ground, facing John off until Dave had dragged Harry from the room, flailing in his arms the entire time, slamming the door behind them.

John turned to walk away from the door, trying to forget everything, and found himself staring at a complete stranger. Looking back at him in the floor-to-ceiling mirror stood a snarling wolf, such a pale blonde that he almost looked white, with lighter fur accenting his muzzle, chest and underside of his legs. What scared him most about himself was not the canines protruding from his lips, perfectly suited to tearing flesh to shreds, or his claws equally as terror provoking, but his size. No wonder his family reacted that way, he was enormous! If his role in the situation had been switched with Harry he couldn’t guarantee he would have acted with the same composure. He never got the opportunity to thank her.

From that day on his life had never been the same again. His mother and father tolerated his presence in the house, Harry avoided him at all costs (apparently Dave had ‘talked some sense into her’) and the rest of his more distant family neglected to invite him to any family events. He was an outcast in the Watson family.

In the years that followed John kept that side of himself hidden away from society, keeping it secret from everyone around him, including Sherlock, only shifting when he could no longer put it off. But since ‘the fall’ he’d found it increasingly difficult to supress his urges.

While, to John’s knowledge, Sherlock was dead, he experienced extreme depression, having lost his best friend and only sense of purpose. He spent the majority of the two years of Sherlock’s absence self-loathing alone in his shifted form. He’d grown used to this, leading to him experiencing discomfort remaining in human state for so many hours, day in, day out ever since Sherlock’s return.

There was nothing for it, he needed to shift; he’d get nothing done all day this exhausted. Just an hour or two and he would be back to his normal self.

Downing the last dregs of his tea as he walked through into the kitchen. After rinsing the mug and placing it back on the counter top next to the kettle, ready to be used once again, knowing that sooner rather than later he’d be needing another caffeine boost.

Since that first traumatic change, John had got into the habit of removing his clothes prior to a shift. Now in control of exactly when he shifted, these preparations were easily carried out. Dumping his clothes in a pile on his armchair, John crouched on the balls of his feet, hands positioned on the floor for added support. Over the years he’d discovered that a low centre of gravity was needed to make the change as comfortable as possible.

Closing his eyes, shutting off the outside world entirely, he searched deep inside his mind what he knew would trigger his change. If someone were to ask what exactly it was, he wouldn’t be able to give an answer other than that it felt like flicking a switch in his mind. But no one would ever ask, so it didn’t matter.

Skin prickling as his fine hair extended to form thick fur, bones shifting beneath his skin to produce his canine framework, John let his breath out as a sigh as the rush of pure euphoria filled him. No feeling compared to this, his energy being fully restored. He opened his eyes once again, finding the flat muted in colour. While in this shape John experienced lesser clarity in his vision, he gained a keen sense of smell and sharp hearing.

With a yawn, the wolf clicked his spine to relieve the lingering tension by stretching, leaning back on his hind legs and bowing his head to the floor. Standing up once again, he shook from head to toe, ensuring every strand of fur sat in its proper position. Once comfortable, he plodded off, making his usual rounds around the flat. Nose glued to the ground, he searched for anything out of the ordinary. Other than lingering smells of some of Sherlock’s more potent experiments, everything was as it should be.

Feeling content, John made his way back into the living room. Leaning on his hind legs, he sprung up onto the sofa, circling four times before settling into a comfortable ball, muzzle covered by his thick tail as the drifted into a deep slumber.

…

Piercing blue eyes shot open, ears twisted forwards as John lifted his head, turning it towards the door to the flat. The unmistakable sound of the main door down only one flight of stairs slamming reverberated through him.

Diving off the sofa, he bound up the stairs leading to his bedroom. Launching himself at the door without thinking, expecting it to swing open from the force, John ended up falling into a heap on the floor. Stupid! He’d forgotten to open the door earlier in case of a situation like this. Returning to all fours, he pivoted 180°, making the mad dash to the bathroom downstairs, praying that the door would be open, when he froze at the bottom of the staircase.

His completely human flat mate, who had no knowledge of John’s shapeshifting ability, was stood in the living room, staring at the pile of clothes John had left on the arm chair, crease between his eyebrows indicating his confusion. John began to scuttle backwards, not knowing exactly where he intended to flee, when he bumped into the bottom step with a dull thud, but not quiet enough for Sherlock to miss. The best friends made eye contact – but they didn’t. In that moment the connection was not friendship, only that of man and beast. Man against beast.

There was only one way this could end – badly.


	2. Realisation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Bit of a shorter chapter, but the next couple *should* be longer. Sorry for the long wait, this chapter didn't flow as easily as the first, but I hope you like it! Feedback is much appreciated - I love waking up to find I've had more hits/kudos/bookmarks overnight and will always take the time to reply to any comments!
> 
> Thank you for supporting me through this, and feel free to check out some of my other WIP's!
> 
> And here it is, chapter two!

John lifted one paw, preparing to take a step towards his friend, when he hesitated. Knowing exactly how dangerous he appeared to an outsider, he attempted to make himself as unthreatening as possible. Instincts coming into play, he assumed the submissive stance of a wolf. John crouched down as he drew his tail between his hind legs. Lowering his head towards the floor, ears flattened back, he forced himself to break eye contact, leaving the next move up to Sherlock.

To John it felt like an eternity before Sherlock scuffled backwards, putting as much space between the two of them as possible. The wolf slowly moved into a sitting position, still glued to the bottom step of the staircase, as Sherlock moved back into his peripheral vision. Lifting his head John witnessed Sherlock wielding the letter opener that had previously been impaled in the mantel piece.

“Who are you?” Sherlock snarled, adding, “What are you doing in my home?”.

John wanted nothing more in that moment than to explain he was friend not foe. He should never have let himself get into this situation. He should have been more careful, only shifted while in the privacy of his own bedroom, despite the isolation he would have felt. That was the logical precaution he should have taken. Instead, he had put both their friendship and lives in danger. John sunk to the floor, head rested on his paws, as he whined in shame.

“Don’t just sit there! Get out!”, Sherlock bellowed.

The wolf looked up into the unforgiving stare of his best friend. In that moment John witnessed the sheer terror behind those eyes. The guilt overwhelming John rose to all fours once again before turning to lumber in the direction of the open front door.

“Wait!” Sherlock thundered a moment later, prompting John to snap his head around, focusing on his friend over his shoulder.

“Where’s John? What have you done to him?” Sherlock continued, voice still raised, "His clothes are here, but he isn't. I know you've done something to him, that's the only logical explanation. So where is he?".

When the wolf made no attempt to indicate Johns whereabouts, Sherlock thrust the knife forwards as he bellowed, “WHERE IS HE?”.

Instinctively, in the face of danger, John span around on the spot, hackles raised as he bared his teeth, a low growl resonating from deep within his throat. Sherlock turned white as a sheet as the sheer terror John witnessed earlier returned to his roommates face. The wolf stalked forwards, snarling as he backed the petrified man into the corner of the room, then paused; what was he doing? How could he possibly bring himself to evoke such fear in the man he had come to call his best friend, who he’d escaped death with on so many occasions? Finally coming back to his senses, John reassumed his docile stance, shuffling backwards to what Sherlock would perceive as a safer distance.

While Sherlock’s breathing returned to a normal pace and his pulse slowed once again, John looked around the room, searching for inspiration of how to explain his identity, when his eyes set on his chair.

With slow calculated movements, he moved across the room, attempting not to alarm Sherlock who watched the entire time, eyes fixed as they followed the figure across the room. When he reached the bundle of garments he carefully closed his jaws around them then dropped them on the floor, lifting his head to look at his friend once again.

“What are you doing?” Sherlock questioned.

Clearly John had not been clear enough in his actions. Hoping to make Sherlock understand, he placed his front paws upon the clump of clothing.

“I don’t understand, where’s John?” Sherlock asked, growing agitated.

The wolf huffed a sigh of exasperation, struggling to find a way to indicate his true identity; only one last idea to test. John scooted backwards then stuck his nose to the floor, wiggling his head in the pile. He resurfaced with jeans slung across the back of his neck and a sock balanced across his skull. John watched as the frustration on Sherlock’s face was replaced with confusion and he drew his conclusions.

“No. You can’t be.” Sherlock mumbled as John warily walked forwards.

As he grew closer Sherlock began to shrink back into himself, trembling slightly as his agitation returned. Stopping short, John sank to the floor, attempting to put Sherlock’s mind at rest. Gradually, Sherlock started to relax, clearly coming to terms with the situation.

“How long have you had this ability?” Sherlock inquired.

“Ar roof!” was Johns only answer, sighing inwardly at his inability to communicate while in his shifted form.

Sherlock stared. Slowly his lips twitched up, eyes crinkling slightly in the corners as he began to snigger, clearly amused at Johns predicament. He playfully growled in response, stopping short as the terror made a reappearance on Sherlock’s face.

“This isn’t going to work” Sherlock muttered as he rubbed his hands across his face.

John’s heart missed a beat. He stared at Sherlock with bated breath as he awaited the inevitable; Sherlock was going to ask John to move out. After all they’d been through, a brief moment of stupidity would terminate their time together. John braced himself for what he knew was to come, but when Sherlock next spoke relief washed over him.

“We cannot possibly have a conversation like this.” Sherlock said bluntly.

Shaking from head to toe, John returned the clothing still draped across him to the floor then bundled it up in his jaws. Turning on the spot, John trotted off through the flat until he reached the bathroom door where he waited. When Sherlock did not appear at his side, he let out one short bark to gain his attention. Soon enough, Sherlock appeared next to him, letting out an amused huff and shaking his head minutely as he swung the door open.


End file.
